Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[scantilycladsnail]

Simon tilted his head at Dylan’s words—“quiet magic”—and let out a thoughtful little hum, still smiling, but this time with the kind of look people got when a puzzle piece just clicked into place.

“Yeah… no, that makes sense, it tracks!” he said excitedly, "You do kinda feel like that. I was thinking protagonist, main POV, when I first saw you. Probably because you're so tall!" He said taking Dylan's height in again, giving him a glance up and down, "But your real vibe is more like someone who’s trying not to show up."

He said it plainly, not cruelly. Not even critically. Just like it was a fact. Like he was reading the weather.

“I don’t mean that bad or anything. It’s just—y’know, most people I meet around here either wanna show off their magic, they're proud. They've worked hard and want people to know, but you don't really have that same energy. You’re just kinda... there, softly. Like background color. Like you’re still figuring out whether you even belong on the page. Just a shrub on a painting, in the scene."

Simon didn’t say it mean. He didn’t say it with malice. But it hung there in the space for a beat too long—stark, unfiltered, honest.

He gave a small shrug, like that was just how the world was wired.

“I mean, the shrub is always someone's favorite I suppose,” He said with a bit more of a pondering tone, rubbing his chin. “Anyway, glad you’re here, Dylan. Really. It was nice meeting you! Remember to look at my note."

With that, Simon gave a finger-gun and a little two-step backpedal out the door.

“I’m gonna get up to something fun! Let me know if you need anything."

And then he was gone—tail wagging, sweater crooked, leaving the room just a little louder than it had been before.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan stood in the doorway long after Simon had gone.

The room was quiet again, but it didn’t feel the same. It felt… softer, maybe. But also echoing in a new way—like Simon’s voice had left brushstrokes in the air that hadn’t faded yet.

He glanced down, slowly pulling out the trading card from his satchel.

The Quiet Bloom.

He stared at the title. At the soft little quote etched below his image. That nervous half-smile of his, drawn perfectly. His name, his rune. That was him. That was what people would see now—what they'd know before even speaking to him.

He thought about walking into a classroom.

What if everyone did just point and go, "Hey! It’s Dylan, the anxious kid!" His stomach twisted. His ears lowered. His thumb grazed the edge of the card, fidgeting, like maybe the corner could be smoothed down enough to make the panic go with it.

He tucked the card away carefully. Quietly.

His legs felt like someone had drawn them in charcoal—there, but ghostly—as he walked over to the window. Outside, the sky was starting to turn peach at the edges. The rooftops of Lumenreach glimmered faintly in the light. All those classrooms. All those cards. All those stories.

He stared at them for a while.

It wasn’t that Simon had been mean. No, not at all. He wasn’t angry. He knew that kind of energy—it wasn’t cruelty, it was just unfiltered Simon-ness. Honest in that clumsy, sunny way. And… maybe he wasn’t wrong. Dylan had never tried to be the center of anything. Was there something wrong with just being quiet? Being nervous? Being a shrub in the painting?

His chest felt like static.

Then—buzz-buzz.
Another buzz.
His pocket glowed.

Dylan pulled out his Whistlepip and blinked at the screen.

Group Chat: The Leg-endary Pack (No Ankles Allowed)
(Martin had named it. Obviously.)

Martin:
HELLO MY FAVORITE SON!!!!!

Martin:
How has the academy been so far??!
I BET YOU'RE DOING GREAT!!

Julia:
He hasn’t stopped crying since you left.
He weeps near windows like a widowed opera ghost.

Martin:
Only a little bit!!!
I’m just proud!!!
MY SON, IN ROBES!!!
ACADEMICALLY CLOAKED!!!

Julia:
We love you. Don’t let the robes trip you. Or the anxiety.
Drink water.

Dylan stared at the screen for a moment. He didn’t move. He just… let it sink in.

Then, slowly, he typed.

Dylan:
Hey.
Things are okay so far.
Kinda overwhelming.
But I met one of my dormmates so far.
They seem nice.
I got my rune card today. I’m The Quiet Bloom.
It’s kind of weird, seeing it.
But it feels… right, I think.

send

The responses came fast.

Martin:
THE QUIET BLOOM??!?
YOU SOUND LIKE A HERO FROM A FANTASY BOOK WRITTEN BY FLOWERS.
I’M OBSESSED.
I’M GONNA MAKE A THEME SONG.
DO YOU THINK YOUR RUNE COULD ANIMATE FLOWERS WHO DANCE?!?!
IF SO I HAVE IDEAS.

Julia:
I’m proud of you, Dylan.
You’re doing it.
Not loudly. Not like anyone else.
But like you.
That’s more than enough.
Now eat something before you faint.

Dylan smiled. Just slightly. But it was real.

The weight in his chest eased.

He slipped the Whistlepip back into his pocket, exhaling through his nose. The world didn’t feel like it was spinning quite as hard anymore.

He turned from the window and started unpacking. Folded his robes. Stacked his sketchbooks. Set his pen holder by the window. The silence didn’t loom this time. It simply waited with him.

And he began again.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The world outside Dylan’s window dimmed into a deep lavender hush, the kind that came just before the academy lanterns lit themselves. Far away, the Whistletrains groaned on distant tracks. In that strange in-between light, a new text came—not immediate, not cold, but measured. Like someone had stared at the screen a long time before finally tapping send.

The message was short. Not cruel. Not sharp.

Just… final.

---

[Text Message from: Ephraim]

Hey, Dylan.
I appreciate you reaching out. Really.

Things have changed a lot on my end lately. I’m in a different place now—physically, mentally… just, everything.
I’ve been focusing on new things, and trying to move forward from the craziness you saw in Brasshollow.

You were always kind and fun. But to be honest, I’m not looking to reconnect. We weren’t close, not really—we were coworkers, and that was fine.
I just don’t think I want to carry that part of my life with me anymore.

No hard feelings.
I hope you're doing okay.

—E.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan stared at the text.

The soft light from his Whistlepip painted his fur in ghost-blue streaks, catching on the edge of his paw where it gripped the device too tight. His ears slowly tilted back. He didn’t blink for a while. Just read it. Again. And again.

His stomach dropped with that familiar, aching lurch—like missing a step on a staircase he hadn’t known was there. His thoughts scrambled to soften the blow before it could land, tried to rationalize, smooth it out, brush it aside.

It’s fine. It’s not mean. She’s just being honest. You weren’t close. She’s right.

But something in his chest pulled tight anyway. A knot of something quiet and sharp. Not just sadness. Not just embarrassment.

Something else.

He started to type a reply. A soft response. No problem at all! or Take care! or maybe something long and rambly he’d instantly regret. But his claws hovered over the letters and… didn’t move.

Instead, he let the screen go dark and slipped the Whistlepip back into his pocket. His throat felt dry. His legs cold. He looked back out the window, where dusk had finally settled its full weight over the rooftops. The lanterns across the academy grounds blinked to life one by one—tiny orbs like polite stars.

He exhaled. Then scoffed. Just once.

“Well… you’re welcome,” he muttered under his breath.

Hands in his pockets, his shoulders curled in—too big for the room, too tall for the moment, too full of all the wrong things. She didn’t have to say it like that. He wasn’t asking to be best friends. He just wanted to give her a heads up. Be respectful. Careful. Kind. Like he always tried to be.

He helped her. With the whistletrain hijacking. With those first shifts, even if not many. He remembered her smile—he remembered how she at least used to listen and obviously seem to want to genuinely comfort him.

And now?

We weren’t close. That was fine.

It echoed, hollow.

He sat on the edge of the bed hard enough to make the frame creak, and dropped his head into his hands with a groan.

“Gods… just my luck,” he muttered.

His ears pinned flat as the whirlwind kicked up inside—shame, confusion, frustration, fear. Of course this would happen right before dinner with Briggs. He didn't want to tell Briggs this now. He wanted to respect leaving Ephraim alone. But Gods, Briggs wouldn't let it go. He could feel it. Of course. He wasn’t ready. He felt like his skin didn’t fit right. Like every inch of him was suddenly all legs and no grounding. Too big, too awkward, too much.

His stomach churned.

He hated this feeling.

And he hated even more that he couldn’t tell whether he was mad at her, or himself.

Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe he just wanted to disappear for a while. Just long enough to stop feeling like a cracked mug everyone kept pretending was still fine to pour into.

He sat there, hands in his hair, the world still flickering softly outside.

He felt so sick.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The room didn’t breathe, exactly—but it held itself in a hush.

The walls didn’t creak. The bed didn’t shift. Even the shadows settled in with a kind of careful gentleness, as if the space itself recognized when it wasn’t time to speak.

Outside, the sky rippled into a deeper blue. The lanterns beyond the glass glowed steady and warm, casting long amber lines across the floorboards. One stripe stretched across the desk—illuminating the small folded square left neatly atop the pillow.

Still there.

Still waiting.

The note Simon had left earlier, creased with care and written on paper that curled slightly at the corners from being clutched a little too tightly in enthusiastic paws. It hadn’t moved. Hadn’t drawn attention to itself. It simply remained, untouched and unassuming—quiet in a way Simon rarely was.

Next to it, the jellyfish doodle tilted ever-so-slightly sideways in the evening light. The cap still perched jauntily on its head. The linework was cheerful, clumsy, honest.

The room didn’t suggest.

It didn’t beckon.

It just… held the moment.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan leaned back from where he’d been crouched—half-folding a sweater, half-not—his arms slow with the weight of too many thoughts.

His palm brushed the edge of the pillow.

The paper crinkled faintly beneath his hand.

He blinked, then turned his head—eyes falling on the note. Oh. Right. Simon.

The little folded square waited there like it always had. Like it hadn’t moved at all, but had somehow still been watching him this whole time. Dylan stared at it for a moment, unsure why the sight made his chest feel a little tighter and looser all at once.

Next to it, the jellyfish tilted at a friendly, slightly ridiculous angle.

He smiled. Softly. Not wide, not with teeth. Just the kind of smile you made when you’d almost forgotten that people could mean well.

He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. His fingers hovered just a second longer—then brushed the paper again, this time deliberately.

A low, exhausted little laugh slipped from him. One of those strange sounds made when your body’s trying to let the pressure out gently.

“…like jelly,” he muttered quietly to himself, eyes lingering on the doodle. “Kinda feel like that too.”

He carefully unfolded the note.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The paper unfolded with a soft crackle.

The ink was simple. Steady. A dark, deliberate hand—not hurried, not messy. Centered on the page, alone and stark, it read:

Why are you here?

No punctuation beyond that. No signature. No sign of whether it had been written with a smile or a dare. Just those four words, quietly watching him from the page.

For a long moment, the room didn’t move. The lantern light outside flickered once—enough to make the folded edges of the paper cast long, claw-thin shadows across the blanket. Somewhere below, a dorm window shut. Somewhere farther off, the train whistle cried again, softer this time. Echoing.

The note rested loosely in Dylan’s hands, but its weight felt uneven—like something left behind on purpose.

It didn’t feel like Simon’s voice. Not exactly. But it also didn’t feel cruel. Just… inevitable.

And the strange part?

In the faint magical hum of the walls—in the enchantments that shaped the structure, in the stillness that followed—something else almost seemed to recognize the phrase.

The walls of Lumenreach didn’t breathe. But they remembered. And that question? That one question?

It was written on the stones. Whispered through the halls. Carved in old brass beneath the dust of every archive door. Students would come to learn—eventually—that the Enclave had been asking it for generations.

Why are you here?

Most assumed it meant their purpose in school. Some thought it meant in the world. A few, quietly, came to believe it meant something far more literal.

Dylan didn’t know any of that.
Not yet.

He only had the note.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The paper rested in Dylan’s hands like something heavier than it should’ve been.Just ink. Just paper. Just a few little words.

Why are you here?

He read it again. And again. Like if he stared hard enough, maybe it would explain itself.

Dylan sat on the edge of the bed, back pressed lightly to the wall. The wood behind him felt cool. Steady. Anchored. He wasn’t.

His hands folded and unfolded the note more than once—creases forming gently, then uncreased, then again. Not because he meant to. It just gave his fingers something to do while his brain filled with fog.

Why are you here.

A small part of him wanted to laugh. Not out of humor. Just...nerves.
He’d had an answer at first. One that felt true.

"I love to learn," he whispered softly. “I just… want to keep learning.”

And that was true. He always had. Random facts, old maps, forgotten train schedules, how milk was stored in the caves at Caster’s Bend before refrigeration. He loved that stuff. Learning made the world feel more ordered. Safer. Understandable.

But even that thought felt like it started to fray the longer he sat with it.

His gaze wandered the small room. The blankets he hadn’t unpacked. The shelves still bare. The spot where his dad would’ve already hung up a terrible poster with a smiling toaster that said something like Toast your doubts!

Dylan exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. But close.

What if he wasn’t really meant to be here?

He ran a hand through his thick fur, claws briefly catching on a tangle he hadn’t brushed out this morning. His ears tilted, low and uncertain.

All those times he’d tried to get in before. All those entrance interviews. All those flubbed answers. All the shaking, the sweating, the way his voice got caught in his own throat and turned into a croak. They told him “thank you for applying” like it was a kindness. Like rejection wrapped in a bow still wasn’t rejection.

But now he was here. Because Briggs believed in him.
Because of a recommendation.

And what if Briggs was wrong?

His stomach twisted. The familiar kind. The one that told him he’d said something too weird. Or too awkward. Or too much. The same twist he’d felt every time he thought maybe—maybe—he’d messed up by even mentioning Ephraim.

Briggs had latched onto that. Not in a bad way. Just… with purpose. That kind of curious light in his eyes like he knew something important had just clicked. Dylan had seen that look before.

And now? Ephraim wanted nothing to do with him.

His hands gripped the note a little tighter.

Was it wrong to be scared? To be the quiet one?
To not want to be the main character?
To not know if he was meant to carry something heavy?

Dylan whispered the words aloud again. “Why… are you here?”

He leaned his head back, ears brushing the wall. His legs stretched out just enough to bump the edge of the bedframe. He didn’t even feel it. His eyes blinked slowly, once, then didn’t for a long time. He didn’t cry. Not yet. But he looked tired. Tired in that way where everything inthe room felt louder than it should’ve.

He wasn’t brave. Not like the others. Not like Dogman, with his claws and snarl and casual cool. Not like Simon, who walked in with joy like it was a weapon against the dark. Dylan was always just the one trying not to get in the way.

Sometimes he wondered if that made him invisible. Other times, he liked that. It felt safe.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, voice small. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

His claws traced the fold of the paper. It crinkled softly beneath his thumb.

“But…”

He swallowed.

“I’m trying.” A pause. A breath. A slow blink toward the shadows on the far wall.

“And I’ll keep trying.”

He didn’t say anything else.

The room stayed quiet.

And the paper didn’t answer.

But somehow, the moment… settled.

And that was enough.

For now.

---

The fire had died hours ago. The last ember gave out with barely a whisper, its soft glow surrendering to the night. What remained was a shallow pit of ash and blackened wood, surrounded by scattered stones and claw marks in the dirt—some made by the wolves, others made by his own hand. Mordecai sat not near it, but just far enough away that the warmth no longer reached him. His legs were folded, his back slightly hunched. He hadn’t noticed the shift in temperature. Or if he had, he hadn’t cared.

The wolves were still. Ber had draped himself around the edge of a boulder, one skeletal paw dangling over the lip. Rus lay on his side near the old log Mordecai sometimes leaned against while journaling, his ribs rising and falling in gentle rhythm. Cer was the farthest, curled in the shadow of the low brush. He saw them—each one—and didn’t move.

It wasn’t a meditative silence. Not the kind Ramura might have taught. This wasn’t peace. This was something denser. Thicker. A silence that pressed inward, like fog behind the eyes. The kind that follows after a voice has spoken something too true to answer, and the body simply stops—not from fear, but from magnitude.

Ramura Mordecai’s words still clung to the edge of his awareness. Not like an echo, but like a shape that wouldn’t fully fade. Mordecai hadn’t argued with him. He hadn’t needed to. The vision hadn’t demanded agreement. Only presence.

That was what lingered now. Not guilt. Not even clarity. Just presence.

He blinked slowly, and for a few minutes, simply watched Rus’s paws twitch in sleep. The wolf's lip quivered with a silent growl, perhaps chasing something that would never quite let him catch it. Mordecai’s eyes traced the subtle shift of shadow across the fur, the way the light from the cloud-filtered moon barely caught on the wolf’s skeletal mask. There was something beautiful about how still they all were. As if the world would allow him this one hour uninterrupted.

And then, without any thought, he stood. Not stiffly, not dramatically. Just slowly. He took the walking staff with him, his coat trailed behind him as he moved toward the trees, not looking back.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

A knock came.

Not a timid one.

Two short raps. Pause. Then one more—like punctuation from someone who had zero doubt they were being heard.

The door creaked slightly under the second tap, like it already knew better than to protest.

Outside stood a velkin: tall, armored in scraps and confidence, with dark violet scales like bruised midnight and crimson ear-fins that twitched with impatient alertness. One claw idly spun a pen between his fingers—something borrowed, probably stolen, probably didn’t matter. His yellow eyes were sharp, narrow, slightly bored.

“Yo,” he called through the wood, voice flat but not unfriendly. “Simon said you made it in.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan perked up at the knock—then jolted slightly at the second. He blinked, ears rising, eyes flicking toward the door with a soft little startled twitch. Right. Someone was there.

He quickly slid the note under his pillow, his fingers lingering on it a moment longer than needed. Then he stood, legs stiff like they’d just remembered they existed. The door creaked open, and Dylan stepped forward with a small, sheepish smile already blooming across his face.

“O-oh, yeah!” he said quickly, a hand half-raising in an awkward little wave. “Y-yeah, I just got here.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m Dylan. You’re uhhh... Dog...man... right?” he asked, ears twitching slightly. “Simon, uh, mentioned you.”

---

The staff tapped lightly against the earth with each step, steadying his stride as he moved through the treeline, further from the camp and the quiet shapes of his sleeping wolves. They remained behind, undisturbed, left in peace—just as he intended. He didn’t call to them. Didn’t glance back. This walk was not for them.

The night folded around him in silence, the kind of silence that felt earned. His hooves sank gently into the soft ground as he descended through a shallow dip between the trees, then up again, the incline mild but deliberate. Each placement of the staff ahead of him became its own small decision—his left side blind, but not directionless.

There was no path, no chosen destination. But the terrain began to rise beneath him, the brush thinning as moonlight filtered in stronger through the canopy. The breeze tugged softly at his coat, catching the loose edges of cloth and lifting them in faint waves. The island had gone still again. Not in warning. In waiting.

He crested the hill without realizing he had aimed for it. The overlook unfurled before him, a shallow basin of silvergrass below and sky wide above—quiet and untouched. The wind moved slowly here, curling at his ankles like it, too, had paused to see what he might do.

He stood at the edge of it all, and the staff’s end sank slightly into the soil beside him.

And above—gentle, slow, unprovoked—something small began to drift from the sky.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Dogman tilted his head as Dylan opened the door, his sharp gaze scanning the maned wolf up and down with a lazy sort of precision—like someone sizing up a figure they already half-remembered from a long-forgotten sketch. His ear-fins twitched once. Then twice.

“That’s right,” he said with a nod, flicking his pen into the air and catching it neatly. “Dogman.”

Then came a pause. His eyes narrowed, not threatening—just focused. Something flickered behind them. Recognition.

“Hey—wait,” he said slowly, a smirk curling across his beak. “I know you. You used to work on the Whistletrains, didn’t you? You’re that guy.”

Dogman leaned a little closer, yellow eyes sharp, the pause stretching juuuuust long enough to imply this might be a roast, a jab, some venom-laced insult about spilled drinks or trip hazards or—

“I loved when you were working,” Dogman said, cutting the tension clean.

Dogman shrugged like it was obvious. “You always had the best stuff on your cart. The little fruit pouches? That weird pastry? Top shelf. And you never gave me grief when I rolled up looking like I’d just crawled out of a ditch. Which I usually had.”

He jabbed a thumb toward his chest. “Don’t let the gear fool you. I am chronically swamp-coded. Mood swings and algae in equal measure.”

Then he wrinkled his snout, expression shifting into something closer to disgust. “You were way better than that annoying-ass seagull they had. The one with the voice. You know the one.”

He paused. Then put on a nasal, exaggerated accent, complete with feather-fluffing hand gestures:

“‘A-how you say… croissant with ze vibes, non?’”

He dropped the impression with a scowl, eyes twitching slightly like he was reliving a trauma.

“Gods. I wanted to wring his neck like a fucking towel. Every sentence outta that dude’s mouth was like getting stabbed. Like Really? You're really asking how to say "ménage à trois"? It's a fucking Plumançais word you little bitch! Ménage à trois is your YOUR cultural export. That is your bird inheritance. YOU SHOULD KNOW. Stop saying "how do you say" before words you CLEARLY know how to say."

He threw both arms up in exasperation, then immediately calmed down like it had been a simple weather pattern passing through his skull.

“Anyway,” Dogman said, tone flattening again, “you were cool. You still cool or what?"

He held out a clawed paw.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan stood there, blinking.

It wasn’t the stare of someone shocked or confused, exactly—it was the wide-eyed, frozen-in-the-doorway look of someone who’d just been hit with a verbal freight train at full speed and was still figuring out where his own limbs were.

The whole seagull impression had left his mouth slightly open, a half-laugh stalled in the back of his throat. Dogman’s voice had done all the driving; Dylan had simply been along for the ride. And now, with that sudden tonal gear shift back to “cool,” Dylan startled slightly, collecting himself like papers in a wind gust.

“O-oh, yeah! Hah… yeah, I, uh—I did used to work there!” he said with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned a little into the doorframe. “Was kinda the cart guy—snacks, drinks, you name it. Pretty sure I almost tripped and face-planted in every train car at least once. Probably more.” He laughed again, awkward but good-natured.

His ears perked slightly, brow furrowing. “Wait—seagull guy?” He tilted his head. “I, um… I haven’t really been back on the Whistletrain much since I transferred here. Haven’t met whoever took over after me. But, uh… he sounds… interesting?” It came out half-curious, half-careful.

When Dogman mentioned Lilyholt, Dylan brightened a little—finally on solid ground.

“Oh, yeah! So you’re from Lilyholt then?” he asked, eyes lighting up. “That makes sense! My regular route was always from Brasshollow to Snarlin’ Cove, so I passed through Lilyholt a lot. The morning mist was always kinda neat over the bogs. Even if it, uh, made the railings really slippery…” Another small laugh, softer this time. “Pretty sure I broke at least two mugs during a rainy curve in your sector.”

Then Dogman’s paw came forward, and Dylan hesitated just long enough for it to maybe be awkward—but then he grinned, ears tilting shyly forward as he reached out and shook it.

“Uhh, yes. I am cool,” he said, nodding a little too quickly. “Yep. I mean—I think I am. Probably not seagull-tier, but like… good-cool. Not ‘how-you-say-croissant’ cool. Just here. Cool. With us.”

A pause.

Then a quieter chuckle, almost under his breath.

“Glad we’re nestmates.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Dogman tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in that lazy, calculating way a person squints at a puzzle they weren’t actively trying to solve but suddenly found themselves interested in.

He glanced Dylan over again—eyes flicking from his nervously enthusiastic half-grin to the way his hands kept fidgeting like they were rehearsing a retreat. Then back up to the soft, twitching ears, and the faint tinge of bashfulness still lingering in his voice.

Dogman’s jaw moved a little. Not a smirk, not quite.

Just a tilt of the head.

A squint.


“You gay?”

It landed with the same blunt force as someone asking what time is it after a long silence.

No judgment. No edge.

Just pure, unfiltered curiosity, like someone asking if Dylan preferred crunchy peanut butter or smooth. There was no punchline waiting. No snide look.

Just Dogman.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan froze.

Like fully, statue-level, still-air-in-his-lungs froze. Ears slightly tilted, paw mid-fidget, tail doing that slow, betraying wiggle of someone who just got asked if they were responsible for breaking a very important vase.

“Uhhhhh,” he blinked. “I—I mean—uh—yes? Y-yeah. I am. That. Gay. I’m… I’m gay. That’s—yep.”

A pause.

Then he made the mistake of trying to fill the silence.

“I mean—not like ‘capital-G Gay Icon,’ not like sparkles and parade floats—I mean I could do a float if someone asked, I just don’t have like, sequins on standby or anything. Not that I couldn’t! It’s just—uh—casual. Casual gay. Everyday gay. You know. Like laundry gay.”

His ears flattened slightly as the words left his mouth. “Wh-what does that mean.”

He gave a helpless little laugh, one paw sort of gesturing vaguely at his own face. “Yes. I’m gay. Sorry. That probably could’ve just been a yes.”

He scratched behind one ear, ears still tilted with shy embarrassment, eyes not quite making full contact.

“But, um. Yeah.” He gave a small nod, a sheepish grin tugging at his muzzle. “Thanks for asking?”

---

The Blossom-Bonding Festival - Night Festivities​

As the sun set over Ramura, the city transformed into a landscape of warm lantern glow and drifting petals. The air carried the scent of fresh-baked pastries and spiced tea, mingling with the ever-present floral notes of the cherry blossoms that framed the streets.

The festival, a celebration of new soul bonds and the paths yet to be walked, was in full bloom. Goatkin from every district filled the streets, dressed in flowing robes embroidered with floral patterns, their spirits high as they moved between the many festivities.

At the bridges and walkways, lovers and close friends tied thin silk ribbons around the cherry blossom trees, each thread representing a wish, a promise, or a memory. Some left small handmade cups at the base of the trees—offerings of gratitude for the lives they lived and the bonds they had formed.

---

When he opened his eyes, the wind was still.

And then, slowly, it changed.

It wasn’t sudden. No gust. No dramatic herald. Just a soft disruption in the air—a stirring above, a shift too quiet to name. Mordecai felt it before he saw it: the way the pressure around his hands shifted, how the hairs on his neck lifted not from fear, but recognition.

The ribbon floated down from nowhere.

Pale silk, frayed at the edges, the faintest sheen clinging to its weave. It didn’t spiral. It didn’t drift aimlessly. It descended like it had always been falling, just now choosing to land. Mordecai’s hand rose, unthinking, and the ribbon touched his fingers with gentle weight. As if it knew him.

His breath hitched—quiet, involuntary.

He looked at the ribbon. Really looked. The knot near one end was loose, unfinished. The other end trailed like a half-forgotten promise. He turned it in his hand, and in doing so, something in his chest ached. Not sharply. Not even painfully. Just deeply.

He remembered Ramura. The festival. The lights and blossoms. The crowd of kin laughing along the river. Ephraim beside him, ribbon in hand, eyes full of something she hadn’t said aloud until the moment had already begun to pass. He remembered how long he’d hesitated. How Wrath had barked, how Ephraim had started to turn away. And how, at the very last second, he had reached forward. How her hand had brushed his, the ribbon between them.

You are my Mercy, too.

He remembered saying it. And the way her voice cracked, just slightly, when she called him her Wrath.

Now, here—years, timelines, lifetimes away—he held a ribbon that looked just like hers.

And it hurt. Gods, it hurt. But not in the way he feared it might.

He swallowed. The air felt thinner now.

He took a knee.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Dogman blinked.

Once.

Then tilted his head again, this time in a slow, sideways arc like he was observing a rare species do something academically fascinating.

“…Why’d you thank me?” he asked flatly, his tone just as casual as before, like they were discussing sandwich preferences. “It’s not like I complimented your coat or somethin’. Or told you that you had a sick rune.”

He shifted his weight, arms loosely folding as his sharp tail tapped once against the floor behind him.

“I mean, sure, you’re gay.” He squinted a little harder. “Are you supposed to be proud of it?"

His brow lifted, tone still nonchalant but unmistakably curious now. No malice. No tease.

Just a weirdly genuine desire to understand how Dylan’s brain got from Are you gay? to Thank you for asking.

“I’ve met other gay people, y’know. You’re not the first. You guys aren't all that tough.”

He leaned one shoulder into the doorframe again, arms folded, eyes narrowing thoughtfully toward the ceiling like he was dredging something out of deep memory.

“There was this guy in Lilyholt, real wiry eel-kin. Wore a leather vest with nothing under it and always had, like, four teeth.” He held up four claws, very seriously. “Everyone knew he was a power-bottom."

Dogman nodded, expression grave.

“Those guys are tanks. Low center of gravity. Cart-flippers. They train for ground-up strikes. You do not want to be caught off-balance near a power bottom. I saw him body a wheelbarrow once.”

He lifted a claw and pointed at Dylan, as if warning him. “From below.”

Then he gestured wide, switching tones seamlessly. “And power tops? Knew this one dude, whole deal was vertical strikes. Tried to uppercut a tree. Straight up. Shattered his knuckle on the bark."

Dogman’s tail flicked once behind him.

“So yeah,” Dogman said with a slow nod, utterly convinced. “... Obviously was just more of an observation, than a compliment. You just needed to know to never cross me, I know your people's tricks already. Can spot you a mile away."

He looked Dylan up and down again, squinting like he was assessing stat weights.

“What kind of gay power type are you anyway?"

He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“... Or are you like an ambush class? Explains why you're making that face... gotta keep it on the downlow, even from your good ol' nestmate, Dogman."

He tapped one claw against his temple.

“Smart. Respect.”

Then, more casually, like they were just two seasoned guildmates comparing builds:
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone your spec. Lotta guys keep that quiet I imagine. Since were nestmates and all now. Your secret, my secret."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan stared.

Like, really stared. The kind of stare where you could practically hear the internal blue screen behind his eyes—ears half-raised, muzzle slightly parted, the beginnings of an attempted response tangled in his throat with no hope of immediate escape.

“I-I didn’t mean like—thanks in a thank-you-for-the-opportunity kind of way,” he finally managed, voice tripping over itself. “It was just… words. I guess. I just said it. But not like—I mean I am thankful, but not for asking, I just, uh—oh gods.”

He put one paw over his face for a second, like that would somehow rewind the whole conversation and let him respawn somewhere safer. Maybe a broom closet. Maybe a different timeline.

“It’s just—I dunno. You asked, and it wasn’t weird. Which is weird. But not bad-weird! Just... I’m not used to that kind of blunt, I guess. But it’s fine. It’s—yeah. That.”

He offered a weak, lopsided smile that might’ve tried to say 'I’m cool with this' but mostly read as 'my entire personality is a held breath.'

Then came Dogman’s... explanation.

Dylan’s pupils dilated about halfway through the “power-bottom” breakdown and never quite returned to normal. His ears wilted, then pricked, then tilted in what could only be described as quiet survival mode. At one point, his tail flicked once behind him like a Morse code distress signal, but he wasn’t sure for who.

He blinked slowly.

Mouth opened.

Closed.

Then opened again like maybe—just maybe—there was a diplomatic response to the words “ambush class.”

“I... I-I think I’m more of a... uh... ranged support?” Dylan mumbled after a moment, voice climbing up a shaky hill of sincerity and shame. “Like... really far range. Like, emotional support. Possibly with snacks. Maybe a doodle.”

He offered a tiny shrug. “Definitely not a tree-puncher. Or a... ground-striker. I get winded if I walk too fast and my knees bend backwards.”

A beat.

“And also I don’t really wanna... spec my identity like a battle loadout,” he added, gently, nervously, in the tone of someone trying to tell a very large, very armored roommate that maybe this wasn’t the best time to be discussing wrestling builds for romance.

He scratched the back of his neck.

“So um,” he said quickly, a pivot so sharp it practically squeaked, “how’ve you been settling in so far? The... nest? Place is, uh. Big. And there’s... lanterns. And... a lot of stairs.”

---

The ground was cool beneath his touch. Not cold, but untouched. His fingers pressed into the soil, curling it back slowly, carefully, as if not to disturb something sleeping below. He didn’t have a prayer in mind. No spell. Just movement. Just action. He placed the ribbon in the shallow groove he made and let his palm linger over it a moment longer than necessary.

He didn’t know what he was burying. A memory. A regret. A version of himself. Maybe all of it.

“I remember now,” he whispered.

The words weren’t for her. They weren’t even for the ribbon. They were for himself.

He covered the ribbon with dirt, smoothing it with the side of his hand. The soil felt softer here, damp with unseen life. He exhaled and sat back on his heels, one arm resting across his thigh, the other still dusted with soil.

Then—without warning—the ground trembled beneath him.

He tensed, but didn’t rise. It wasn’t danger. It wasn’t the Hollow Veldt. It was something slower, deeper. The kind of movement that came from roots stretching. From something deciding it was time.

Before his eyes, the soil shifted again. A single branch broke the surface, coiling upward like a slow breath. Bark smooth and pale. Leaves followed, then blossoms—first closed, then blooming in slow motion. Dozens. Hundreds. The trunk straightened, elegant and curved, rising until the cherry blossom tree stood fully formed before him.

And wrapped gently around its branches—fluttering in the breeze—were silk ribbons. Not just one. Many.

Some were pale and frayed, others newer, in shades of ivory, rose, and moonlit thread. They swayed beside the petals like prayers left behind, soft echoes of memory, tied by hands that no longer lingered. The ribbons caught the same wind as the blossoms, rising and falling in quiet rhythm.

Mordecai stared. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just watched, eyes fixed on the way the tree stood now, not as a monument, but as a reflection. A mirror in bloom.

And behind him—though he didn’t turn—he felt it.

The Witherstalker.

Its presence was not looming. Not predatory. It didn’t breathe down his neck or rustle the grass. It simply was. Just as Ramura Mordecai had said. Not a god. Not a ghost. Just something old, watching the way a mountain watches—patient, unchanging.

The hallucination of Ramura Mordecai's words resurfaced: “This place... it’s not just wilderness. It listens. It mirrors... You’re not shaping this place. You’re revealing it.”

He had started to believe it—back when the wolves ran and the flowers followed. Back when the Witherstalker watched in silence and the ground bloomed anyway. But now, as the cherry blossom swayed and the silk ribbons stirred in the breeze, he understood. This wasn’t magic. It was reflection. And the island had always been listening.

This tree had not bloomed because he wanted it. It bloomed because something in him—something quiet, buried, and unwilling to be named—had needed it.

The island wasn’t waiting for answers. It was waiting for reflection.

And now, so would the tree.

The silk ribbons danced in the branches, catching the crescent moonlight like threads of memory not yet frayed. They hung like promises. Like lives. Like fragments of love still remembered.

Like her.

​

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Dogman’s eyes didn’t blink the entire time Dylan spoke. Not once. He just stood there, listening with the same unflinching stare someone might give a raccoon trying to explain taxes. When Dylan finally tapered off into that desperate pivot about lanterns and stairs, Dogman gave a soft, slow exhale through his nose.

“Yeah. Nest is fine. I like the stairs. Makes me feel like I’m outrunning something, even when I’m not.”

He rolled his neck with a quiet crack and pushed off the doorframe, stretching his arms over his head until his shoulders popped. The toothpick he’d somehow reappeared mid-conversation wagged slightly from his mouth as he spoke.

“So hey. You got plans tonight?”

Simple. Deceptively so.

“Couple of us are heading over to the Wing of Studies after sundown. Just some drinks, little Trivia game. Relaxed stuff. Not academy-sponsored or anything, which usually means it's actually fun.”

He glanced around the room briefly like it might offer confirmation, then returned his eyes to Dylan.

“You should come.”

He didn’t wait for an answer right away. Just kept talking, like he was filling in the gaps Dylan might try to hide behind.

“Look, you already did the serious stuff, right? Got your robes, took your test, made a trading card... I can't imagine you're gonna do the whole academy sponsored 1:1 dinner with a faculty member thing... it's pretty lame."

Dogman leaned in just a little—not enough to invade space, but enough to make the words land heavier.

“You probably shouldn’t blow this off.”

His tail flicked behind him. Calm. Direct.

“First nights matter. Not because they’re magical or whatever. But because everybody’s still choosing. Still looking around. Still figuring out their circles.”

He tapped the side of his head once, lightly. “You wait too long, people settle. Lines get drawn. You don’t wanna be the guy who didn’t show up.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan hesitated.

It was the kind of silence that stretched—not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he did. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, thumbs brushing over the fabric of his robe sleeve. Dogman’s words weren’t wrong. They hung in the air with that flat, matter-of-fact weight that made Dylan’s stomach twist a little.

He got it. Really, he did.

First impressions. People finding their groups. The way lines quietly drew themselves in hallways and lunch tables and group projects and never seemed to un-draw. Dylan had seen it happen. Lived it. And gods, part of him wanted to say yes. To prove he wasn’t the weird anxious loner. To try.

But...

His mind flicked back to earlier in the day. The rune chamber. The trading card. The way Briggs had grinned at him, wide and proud—“Welcome to the archive, kid.”

And before that—

The letter.

The rejections. All those failed Lumenreach applications, each stamped back to sender with polite but crushing disappointment. "Unfortunately, we cannot offer admission at this time."

Every time, it felt like maybe the world was right. Maybe he wasn’t good enough.

But then Briggs stepped in. Briggs wrote the recommendation. Briggs fought for him.

He couldn’t blow that off. Not tonight.

Dylan looked back at Dogman, his ears twitching with faint apology. His voice came out in its usual, stammering rhythm—soft, but not unsure.

“Ah—uh, I mean… I really appreciate it. That sounds, uh, cool. Really cool,” he said, with a sheepish smile. “But, uh—yeah. I actually am doing the dinner thing. With, um… Briggs. Mentor dinner. It’s probably gonna be a lot of me accidentally knocking over a cup or forgetting which fork is which, but...”

He gave a quiet, almost breathy laugh.

“I dunno. I—I kinda need to go. Feels important.”

He paused, then lifted his eyes with a bit more steadiness.

“But… maybe next time? If you guys do another hangout?”

He didn’t over-explain. He didn’t apologize. Just offered that soft, warm half-smile that somehow said: Thank you anyway. I really mean it.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Dogman didn’t linger. He simply nodded once, a low, wordless gesture, and turned without ceremony. His clawed hand reached for the door—worn wood, smoothed at the edges from years of use—and closed it behind him with a soft, decisive click.

No fanfare.

Just that gentle thunk of the latch sliding home.

The door closed—
and the sound carried forward—
—not as an end, but as a beginning.

Click.

A different door now. This one narrow, curved at the top, carved into the old stone frame of Lumenreach’s Grand Hall. Weathered brass hinges. A low-hung sign above it in curling, hand-brushed script: Owl’s Charm Supper Club (OCSC). Dim lanternlight spilled outward in a golden arc, smelling faintly of cloves, polished wood, and something warm steeped in cider.

The door opened—not pushed, but pulled with quiet intention.

Briggs stood there.

No robes tonight.

Instead: a mustard yellow turtleneck hugged his frame—classic, clean, with just a hint of ironic charm. It softened him somehow. Made him look less like a flustered instructor and more like someone who might be in a jazz trio. Or write long letters with real ink. Or both. His spots stood out a little more in the amber light, dappling across his face in calm, curious patterns.

​

​

He held the door open with one arm, the other tucked casually into the side of his slacks. The tilt of his head was polite, gentlemanly—but not forced. And though his tail gave the faintest twitch behind him (old nerves, perhaps), there was no mistaking the warmth in his expression.

“Evening,” he said, with that low, unhurried confidence. “Looking sharp, Crowl.”

He stepped back, just a little, letting the glow of the Owl’s Charm fall outward like an invitation. Inside, the supper club thrummed gently—soft candlelight pooled on darkwood tables, glints of glass and silver catching the flickers. The enchantments overhead were subtle: dim floating orbs, feather-shaped runes, and a lazy illusion of mist drifting across the ceiling like clouds in an amber sky. Behind the bar, an old barn owl in a silk vest polished mugs with a rune-warmed rag, while a scratchy gramophone whispered jazz beneath the hum of conversation.

Briggs extended a hand—not to shake, but to guide. “Come on in. Thought we’d keep it simple. Good food, soft chairs. Just a little… reprieve.”

He smiled again, with a glint in his eye.

“You earned it.”​

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

---

Dylan stood just outside the warm golden arc of the doorway, backlit by the deeper shadows of the evening hall. His outfit wasn’t fancy in a loud way—but it was neat, thoughtful. A soft pine-green dress shirt rolled neatly at the sleeves, tucked into a pair of tailored slate slacks. A buttoned dark charcoal vest hugged his long torso, pocket square poking out just slightly with an etched leaf pattern on the edge. The whole thing looked carefully chosen, like someone had stood in front of a mirror for way too long agonizing over collar angles and pocket folds.

Which he had. Twice.

He took a breath.

Then stepped in.

The first thing to hit him wasn’t the smell of warm cider spices or polished wood—it was the feeling. The hush. That gentle reverence some places just seemed to hold, like you weren’t supposed to raise your voice or even walk too fast. The floating leaf-shaped runes overhead drifted slow as snowfall, casting soft shadows across the candlelit tables. A low jazz number crackled from a rune-linked gramophone in the corner. Dylan’s ears perked, then immediately wilted shyly at the sound of silverware clinking and quiet laughter.

And then—

His foot bumped a chair leg.

Just enough to nudge it. Not enough to knock it over. But enough that it made a little scrape. Dylan winced. Looked down. Looked up.

"Sorry—ah—sorry, sorry, just—"

He took a weird diagonal step to correct his path, which somehow made it worse, and his tail twitched behind him like it wanted to physically leave the room ahead of him.

Briggs hadn’t moved from the door, still holding it open with one arm, the other resting easily at his side. He was wearing a mustard yellow turtleneck that should have looked goofy but didn’t. In fact, it looked really good. Cozy, almost vintage, the kind of good that made Dylan’s mind short-circuit briefly with a cascade of very unhelpful thoughts like: compliment it, no don’t, he’s faculty, stop noticing his shoulders.

Briggs extended a hand.

Not to shake.

Just to welcome. To ground.

Dylan looked at it for a second longer than he meant to.

And then, carefully, he reached out and took it.

Not firm. Just enough. His paw curled into Briggs’s for a quiet second. Warm. Steady.

“Thanks,” Dylan said softly, ears flicking. “For… y’know. For this.”

He stepped fully into the supper club, still holding on for just a breath longer than needed. Then let go quickly—too quickly—and tucked his hands behind his back like he was worried they might misbehave again.

His voice followed after with its usual sheepish rhythm.

“This place is… wow. I mean, it’s beautiful. I didn’t even know places like this existed inside the academy. It’s like—like someone painted what I thought grown-ups did when I was a kid. Like… soft jazz and tea with stars in it and, I dunno, people with opinions about architecture?”

He caught himself rambling, smiled nervously, then looked at Briggs again with a quieter sort of appreciation.

“I’m really glad you invited me.”

Then—because it was Dylan, and he couldn’t not say it, even if it came out tangled—he added:

“And uh—you, um. The sweater? It’s good. Really good. You look—composed. Not that you don’t always look composed, I just—I meant that it suits you, the—uh…”

He cleared his throat.

“…Nice color.”

And then, mercifully, he shut his mouth.

Still smiling. Still twitchy. Still Dylan.

Trying.​

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs smiled as Dylan took his hand—a gentle, deliberate expression, calm and present. There was something in the way Dylan touched the space around him—like he was always checking if he was welcome before stepping fully in. Like he couldn’t quite believe someone had held the door open for him in the first place.

He respected that. Quiet resilience. The nervous kind.

The kind he remembered having, once.

As Dylan’s compliments came—stumbling but sincere, threaded with half-panicked grace—Briggs chuckled low under his breath, more breath than sound, and gently shut the door behind them. The room sealed out the noise of the Grand Hall with a muffled hush.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, voice smooth but professional, polished like the shine on the wood panels beneath them. “Turtlenecks don’t usually make the cut during lecture days, but—figured I’d lean into a little nostalgia. Professor Marlo used to wear this exact color. Used to say mustard brought out honesty in his students.”

He glanced down at himself, one brow lifting faintly in dry amusement. “Can’t say it worked on me.”

Briggs turned toward the hostess stand, gesturing Dylan ahead with a subtle tilt of his head. As they moved deeper into the supper club, warm light catching against the soft ripple of candle shadows, he tucked his hands loosely into his pockets and let a breath go.

He wasn’t expecting Dylan to clean up so well.

Something about the neat vest, the pocket fold, that leaf pattern—it wasn’t loud, but it was intentional. Earnest. And under all of it: that same restless charm Dylan always carried, like his heart was running just a few beats ahead of his words. Briggs didn’t look too long, didn’t let his expression linger.

But still. He’d noticed.

It was... cute.

He’d known Dylan for what, a few months? That chance encounter at the coffee-shop.

Most people couldn’t throw back his jargon. Most people tried to smile politely through it.

But Dylan didn’t flinch at his spirals.

And tonight, now, standing here in candlelight and doing his best not to trip over a compliment—he was... handsome.

Briggs pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek for half a breath, then shook his head subtly, resetting the gears. No. Not tonight. Not here. That was a dangerous line to cross. Not just because of academy policy, but because Dylan had potential. Real potential. Research-changing potential. If even half of what he said about that woman turned out to be true...

Briggs cleared his throat softly and folded his hands behind his back as they approached their table.

“I’m glad you came,” he said simply. “You deserve a good start.”

He paused, giving Dylan a once-over again—but this time it was observational. Professional.

“You clean up well,” He flashed a quick grin, then pulled Dylan’s chair out slightly with a practiced ease. Not overly grand—just enough to show he was paying attention.

Once Dylan sat, Briggs lowered himself into his own seat across the table. A folded menu rested between them, enchanted with softly shifting text depending on how the reader tilted it. He made no move to grab it yet.

Instead, he leaned slightly forward, elbows on the table, and asked—genuine, but laced with a glimmer of curiosity:

“So. How’d meeting your nestmates go? Pretty different personalities to your own, huh?"​

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan gave a soft, sheepish chuckle as he sank into the seat Briggs had pulled out for him, murmuring a quiet "thank you" that felt like it carried a little more weight than just manners. His hands smoothed over the front of his vest instinctively, as if taming wrinkles that weren’t really there.

The warm candlelight caught the edge of his fur and made his whiskers twitch slightly. His eyes flicked up toward Briggs for just a moment—then past his ear, then down toward the table, then toward one of the softly glowing lanterns above. Never quite holding. Never quite still.

It wasn’t intentional. Just something he always did. Like his gaze was trying to find a safe place to rest that wasn’t too bright or too direct. But after a few seconds, he realized how obvious it might seem—and that’s when the nervous explanation tumbled out.

“Oh, uh—by the way, if I’m, like, not looking straight at you—I mean, at your face, not not your face, just—I’m not trying to be rude or anything. I just, uh… eye contact is kinda hard for me. Sometimes. Not 'cause you’re not nice or anything! You are! Very nice! I just—” he trailed off, ears flicking once, then twice.

His tail shifted under the chair.

“...Yeah. Sorry. Just felt like I should say that.”

He gave a small, anxious smile, then tried to pull himself back to the question Briggs had asked, grateful for the distraction.

“My nestmates?” he echoed, letting out a slightly more relaxed breath. “They’re… yeah. Different.” Another chuckle. “But in a good way, I think. Simon’s like—he’s like if a cup of sunlight had too much sugar. In a nice way! I mean—he folded my blanket before I even moved in. And left a welcome note. And a doodle. It waved.”

He smiled a little at the memory, rubbing the back of his neck.

“And Dogman is… uh, intense. But not mean. Just really honest. Like—very direct. The kind of guy who skips the small talk and just starts listing how many swamp beasts he’s wrestled before breakfast.”

Dylan shrugged, then caught himself mid-shrug and sat a little straighter.

“But I dunno. They seem like good people. Simon’s really thoughtful under all the energy. And Dogman’s got this... kind of blunt honesty? But not in a bad way. I think they’re just both figuring things out too. Like the rest of us.”

He paused, hands now folded in his lap, trying not to fiddle with the silverware. His eyes briefly flicked to Briggs again—held there just a second longer this time before darting off to the dancing shadows on the wall.

“I’m still figuring out how to talk to people like that, y’know? The big personalities. But I’m trying.” His voice softened slightly, not quite apologetic. Just honest. “Trying to, uh… not be too much of a wallflower.”

A beat.

Then, quietly:

“I’m really glad we’re doing this. I mean… the dinner. It’s nice. Familiar faces are nice.”​

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs leaned back in his chair just slightly, the glow of the overhead lanterns catching the curve of his turtleneck and throwing warm flecks of light across the patterned brass trim of the table. He didn’t smile immediately—he listened first. And not in the polite, nodding way most people did when they were waiting to talk. He listened, like each sentence Dylan let out was worth the time it took to shape.

And when Dylan finished—when he offered that small truth, that soft little “familiar faces are nice,” Briggs finally spoke, voice low and warm and genuine.

“I’m really glad to hear it,” he said. “About your nestmates, I mean. It’s always a bit of a lottery—who ends up with who, what kind of energy gets thrown into the mix. But it sounds like yours are solid.” His brow quirked slightly. “Big personalities aren’t always a bad thing. Sometimes they make it easier. You always know where you stand.”

He paused, then added with a faint smile, “And you don’t have to explain yourself, by the way. The eye contact thing.” His tone was light, but not dismissive—just understanding. “We all have our lines. Sometimes looking someone in the eye feels like trying to stare down the sun. Doesn’t mean you’re not present.”

He settled forward again, elbows gently resting on the edge of the table.

“And this dinner?” His eyes held Dylan’s now, steady but kind. “It’s tradition. Faculty members are encouraged to offer a meal to first-time students as part of the welcome week structure. It’s meant to be a way to ease nerves and build trust, especially for those with fieldwork aspirations.”

A beat.

“But I was hoping you’d come,” he said more quietly, and there was no teasing in his tone—just a truth, offered plainly. “I’ve done a lot of these, Dylan. Too many, if I’m being honest. And they start to blur together. But this one... this feels different.” He held up a hand, as if cutting off a protest. “And no—I don’t say that to everyone. I promise. You’re sharp. Sincere. You see things in ways most people don’t even bother to look.”

His thumb brushed along the edge of the rune-menu idly.

“I should’ve said this earlier,” he added, voice dipping slightly. “And I owe you an apology, actually. Earlier today—you asked me what my rune was.” He looked down for a moment, then met Dylan’s gaze again with something more vulnerable in his eyes. “I dodged it. That wasn’t fair to you. Especially since we’re going to be working pretty closely.”

Briggs exhaled through his nose and leaned back again, arms folding lightly across his chest.

“I haven’t connected with a rune,” he said plainly. “Not since the shift.”

The words sat between them for a moment. He didn’t dress them up or shy away.

“I was attuned to the old system—bibblecores. Loved my edge, always kept it on me. It was a wrench.” He smiled faintly at that. “Fitting, I know. Half the time I was just bashing away at glyph capacitors."

“But ever since the new structure settled in—I haven’t been able to sync up again.” He tapped the table once, more thoughtful than anything else. “I don’t talk about it much. Mostly because it’s easy to chalk it up to age. I know we’re only what—eight years apart? But sometimes, that’s enough. Younger minds adapt faster. You’re still taking your first steps into magic. I’ve had to learn how to un-walk mine.”

Briggs shrugged slightly, one shoulder lifting and falling. Not bitter. Not self-pitying. Just honest.

“It’s been hard,” he said. “Still is.”

Then, as if remembering himself, he straightened with a more familiar ease and gestured to the tabletop again.

“But hey—you made it. Through your first day.” He smiled now, a bit wider, and there was pride in it. “If you have questions about your exam, I'm your guy.” He tapped the small arcane tablet tucked beside the menu, its rune-glow pulsing softly. “And I can walk you through what comes next. How everything works from this point."

He gave Dylan a slightly crooked grin—one side of his muzzle ticking up a touch higher than the other.

“Though if you want to finish your cider first, I can wait until we’ve at least seen the dessert menu. No rush.”

He didn’t push. Just left the conversation open, resting gently between them like a book half-flipped.​

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dylan blinked softly, ears twitching as he listened—really listened—to everything Briggs said. The moment of honesty about not having a rune still sat in the air, but it didn’t feel heavy now. Just… human. He folded his hands gently around his cider glass, not drinking from it yet, but holding it like it helped anchor him.

“I didn’t expect you to say that,” he said quietly, after a beat. “About the rune thing.”

His fingers shifted slightly, turning the glass in place.

“But… thank you. For telling me. It’s…” He fumbled a moment for the right word. “I don’t know. Kind of reassuring? Not in a mean way! Just—like, you’re someone I really respect, and… I guess it’s nice to know even the people you look up to are still figuring things out too.”

He gave a shy smile, brief but warm.

“And the wrench,” Dylan said, lighting up just slightly. “That really is perfect for you. It’s sturdy. Practical. Gets into weird places most people don’t think to look.” He glanced up, a soft flick of his ears. “And breaks things open when it needs to.”

He almost added something else—but his words caught for a moment, like they tripped on the edge of a thought.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the glowing menu, then back to his hands. He was thinking about the research—of course he was. It was part of why he was even here. But the moment he thought about bringing it up, his mind immediately flashed to her name. The unread message. The quiet weight of knowing Ephraim had pulled back… and how part of him still didn’t know if he had pushed too hard just by telling Briggs anything in the first place.

So instead, he hesitated.

Then pivoted.

“I, um…” he began, a little softer now, “I’ve been thinking about the simulation still. Not about whether I passed—I mean, you already said I did great, which, um, thank you again—but just… the vessel. Yue.”

He fidgeted with the coaster under his drink, tracing the edge slowly. His eyes flicked upward, then back down again, like the memory itself shimmered too vividly in his mind to hold still.

“It felt… different. Not just a vision or a test. It was like stepping sideways through time or story or—I don’t even know. The magic wasn’t just something to use. It was part of everything. The air, the way the ground moved, the way she talked, even. Like everything was built from belief and still somehow worked.”

He paused, rubbing the side of his thumb over the woodgrain.

“I just… I keep thinking about it. What it looked like, how it worked. What kind of world it was. What kind of people lived there. What it meant for her to carry all that magic. All that belief.” His voice was hushed now, not afraid, but reverent—like he didn’t want to break the shape of something too fragile to name. “I think I only saw a sliver. But… I don’t know. It’s stuck with me.”​

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Briggs listened carefully, that quiet attention of his never drifting. Even when Dylan’s voice dropped into that softer, wondering tone—the one that carried questions even it didn’t quite know how to ask—Briggs didn’t interrupt. He let the silence settle between them for a breath or two, like he was making room for it. Then he leaned slightly forward, elbows just brushing the edge of the table, his voice lowering just a touch.

“You did do good,” he said, nodding once. “Really good, actually. That was the same simulation I had on my first day.”

He let that hang for a beat, watching Dylan’s expression shift at the mention.

“The truth is… there’s about forty-five of those scrolls in total currently. We create them by combining different types of magic repeatedly in a controlled environment, which in turn with our technology, creates long sequential number-strings. If we get a match, it conjures the memory scroll. The tricky part is though, that for every 1 scroll, there's around 100,000 null sequences that conjure nothing and end up wasting resources. Most are held at the Vault. Old memory archives. Some of our researchers spend years in them—mapping timelines, studying inconsistencies, trying to develop offshoots by gathering data on other kin they spot inside of the memory-scroll they are accessing."

Briggs reached for his water glass but didn’t drink. Just rotated it slowly between his fingers, eyes focused on it like it helped him track the story.

“There’s only one scroll we’ve ever catalogued that’s a complete match for our world, the Archipelago Network. But the notes on it were… struggling. Incomplete. Fragmented, honestly. The simulation doesn’t look anything like what we know as the Archipelago Network. It's vastly different and we can't pin point why yet."

He glanced up now, brow furrowing slightly.

“We’d been working on it for a while. Trying to figure out how it could be our world but not look like it. But right before the bibblecores crashed, that scroll went missing. Vanished from the Vault. No break-in. No trace. We still haven’t been able to locate it or figure out who is responsible for its disappearance."

There was a silence then, not tense, but weighty. And then Briggs gave a small, dry cough—half-clearing his throat, half-clearing space for what came next.

“The rest of the scrolls,” he said pointedly, “are from universes the Academy officially believes no longer exist.”

He didn’t hide the way his muzzle twitched slightly on the word Academy. It wasn’t disrespect—just skepticism. Carefully aimed.

“I don’t necessarily agree with that. I don’t think universes just end. At least not the way they say. "

He shifted slightly, tone slipping into the steady hum of someone shifting into theory mode.

“My work focuses on two core premises. First, that people—kin, really—can move between universes. I don’t know how. I don’t know what triggers it. But I believe it’s possible. I think potentially there are even some kin who may be able to move at will."

He counted it off absently on his fingers.

“Second… that universes never end. They just shift. Morph. Lose their original profile. Perhaps become difficult to locate.”

Briggs paused, searching Dylan’s face—not for validation, but to see if he was still with him. Then:

“The best way I’ve ever found to explain it is like a game. A video game. You don’t delete a game every time you stop playing—you make a save file. The world pauses. You can switch games, but the old one is still there. It could be possible from the time that a universe is created, a save file is essentially created every day, effectively creating an infinite amount of versions of that world; all accessible from the old files, not over-writing eachother."

His fingers tapped the table once. A small, thoughtful knock.

“I think these scrolls are just that, one of many save files we find. Not just moments, but entire states of existence. Locked in place the moment the scroll was created. And I think, with the right knowledge, we could find a directory of every single save file that existed on any game."

He sat back now, letting that breathe.

“Yue’s world is one of the most complex we’ve seen. Not just because of the belief system—though you’re absolutely right, but because it had… multiple systems. Layered, mismatched. Like a world someone kept overwriting over and over again. The file got more and more corrupt. It's possible that even the 'players' from that world carry a corruption with them, effectively corrupting each new universe they visit over-time. Though, that's just a possibility, and not something I'm focused on. I'd have to prove my other theories first."

Briggs’s eyes lifted.

“Her world is rare. And… unstable. Like magic patched with duct tape. Still functional, but maybe not safe.”

He let that trail off, watching Dylan carefully again.

“There’s a reason we still use that one as a test scroll. Because it lingers. It makes people think. About what magic is supposed to be. About what stories survive. About whether the world they’re standing in is the only one that ever mattered.”

A pause.

“And you picked up on that in one pass,” Briggs said, and now there was a smile—small, but unshakably proud. “Not many do.”​